Chapter 22 - The Bridge to the Île de Ré

IT IS RAINING as I throw my bag in the car and prepare to leave the spa. After four days of seaweed wraps and alternating hot and cold seawater hose-downs, I am several kilos lighter, and my skin is glowing as if powered from within by a nuclear reactor. I really lucked out on this work assignment – a spring detox break in a thalassotherapy spa. (It being France, the 'detox' still included half a bottle of wine with dinner.) I wasn't exactly thrilled when the commissioning editor told me that the spa I was to write about was on the Île de Ré, but the moment had come to make peace with my past. Ever since I moved to France, I've known that I would have to cross that bridge at some point. And four days ago, I finally did it.

This morning, after a final seawater hose-down, I even went for a walk around Ars, a little village on the farther most tip of the island that I had not visited before – and, according to the tourist sign, one of the prettiest villages in France (in spite of its unfortunate name). As I wandered around, and in and out of shops selling wicker plant holders, oyster-shaped soaps and stripy T-shirts, there was a real sense of anticipation, of new beginnings in the air. Although the famous rose trémières are not yet in bloom, the island is gearing up and beautifying itself in time for the official start of the tourist season. I passed artisans in white overalls painting the shutters of a small hotel in pale green, and a window cleaner hard at work on an icing-white cottage covered in wisteria. In one of the narrow streets, an enormous stone tub filled with flowers was being lowered onto the pavement by a fork-lift truck. As I strolled around, breathing in the clean sea air and the scent of seaweed (though that could just have been my skin) I felt a strong sense of living absolutely in the present.

And now it's time to leave the island behind. Even though it is April and raining, the cyclists are out in force as I head towards the bridge in the late afternoon. They pedal along in little shoals, visions of relaxed well-being, their complexions glowing with the fresh sea air. Most of them are French – I can tell by the way they look and their style of dress, for it is a particularly chic type of tourist that the island attracts. A recent article in Madame Figaro even provided a dress code for anyone thinking of visiting the island: Chanel bags and high heels, it declared, were 'out'; straw baskets and espadrilles 'in'. The tourists that I pass look like they have rigorously adhered to the prescribed uniform: pedal pushers (preferably navy gingham), a tiny cotton top and ballet flats for women; khaki shorts, sandals and a red or navy fleece for men. Today, in the rain, a waterproof jacket – navy, preferably – has been added to the mix.

Maybe it's the effect of all that seaweed and ozone, but as I approach that slender metal structure suspended over the Atlantic, the Rolling Stones blaring on the car stereo, I feel liberated, truly at peace for the first time in years. Eric is behind me now, somewhere in La Flotte, probably up to his ears in pizza dough. As I cross the shimmering Atlantic and leave the Île de Ré behind, I know I won't be going back. This, I guess, is what they call closure. I feel a surge of happiness as I reach the other side of the bridge, the lights of La Flotte strung out like a necklace behind me.

Singing aloud, I speed away from the island that is part of my past, away from La Rochelle and towards Villiers and home. The sun appears in the sky somewhere past La Rochelle and, in the pale sunlight of late afternoon, I feel again the sense of spring in the air, of better things lurking just around the corner. Unfortunately, what is lurking around the corner for me is a flat tyre. I am just 15 kilometres away from Villiers when my car begins to make a loud rattling noise. It feels as if it is bumping rather than rolling along, before slowing down to almost a halt. Brilliant! I have broken down on a deserted country road, with only a dilapidated stone barn in the distance.

I get out of the car and see that the tyre on the front wheel is torn to shreds, and the wheel is down to the metal rim. I lean against the bonnet and take in the early evening scene before me, as I wonder which of my friends to call. I am surrounded by a vast expanse of countryside – a collage of different colours and textures. Winters's brown furrowed fields are green or gold with vegetation again, while the smell of woodsmoke and decaying leaves has been replaced by a crisp, green scent that is unmistakably le parfum of spring. The pale yellow grass in the verge at the side of the road is dotted with wild poppies and bluebells. And above it all, there is a huge pale pink sun in the sky.

As I pause to appreciate the stunning scenery – and realise again how lucky I am to live here – I hear a noise in the distance and eventually a car with an English registration plate pulls up in front of me. A man in his late thirties gets out, casually dressed in khaki T-shirt and jeans. He has longish blond hair and a face that has seen a lot of sun, with crinkled but kind eyes. He looks friendly, strong, laid-back, and he smiles as he walks towards me. 'It looks like you need some help,' he says. 'Tell me where your spare wheel is and I'll change it for you.'

I watch as toned, evenly tanned arms pull the wheel from underneath the boot of my car, golden hairs visible in the last burst of late afternoon sun. Above us there is a pink and blue tie-dye effect sky. If you are going to break down, I think to myself, you couldn't wish for a more beautiful setting or better time of day. As my rescuer crouches down to switch the tyre, he talks to me, interested to know more about what I am doing in France.

In the time that it takes him to sort out my car, I discover that his name is Andy Lawton, that he has just left the army, where he served for several years in Afghanistan, and that he has recently split up from his girlfriend. He has decided to make a new start, renovating a barn in France. He has told his friends that he is going for a year, just to see if he likes it. I do not have to probe for any of this information. He readily volunteers it. At the same time, he extracts key information from me, including the fact that I live out here alone.

Twenty minutes later, I thank him for his help and we say goodbye, before continuing on our way, both of us heading in the same direction. I am still driving along a country road alone, but it's no longer dark. The sky is an incandescent pink and pulsating with promise. And as I turn into the square in Villiers, my heart beats just a little faster at the thought of my new neighbour, who is heading home with my telephone number – so casually asked for – in his pocket.